


A Little Like Home

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Junkrat is trans, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7261939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the subject of trust, and enjoying quiet moments while they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Like a lot of people, I've been playing nothing but Overwatch for a couple of weeks now. I thought I'd be into the meme cowboy, but no. Instead I had to choose the garbage child and his Mad Max bodyguard.  
> Disclaimer: I am not trans, so if my presentation of Junkrat in this fic is at all inappropriate, please let me know. I promise this was not my intention.

Roadhog sits on the edge of the overlook, legs dangling over the side (as much as tree trunks can be said to dangle) and takes in the view of the Sonoran Desert at night.

The American desert is different from the Outback—more vegetation, for one, less radiation, for two—but there’s a comforting familiarity to it all the same. The air’s hot and dry, just like Hog likes it, and the sight of the almost-full moon rising above a distant mesa is almost just the same view he got from the house he grew up in, years and years and years ago. For a second, it almost makes him nostalgic.

Hog’s thoughts are interrupted at the same time the peaceful desert silence is shattered by Junkrat’s faint cry of “What a _show_ , eh?”

Hog turns to see Junkrat’s figure emerging from the shadows of a long-deserted restaurant, hair singed, eyes wild, prosthetic arm gesticulating incoherently, limping towards him a little unsteadily with the aid of his peg leg. Normal for Junkrat, then.

Hog turns back to the view, patiently waiting for Junkrat to make his way over. He knows what this is about—they’ve just completed a pretty risky job with a huge payoff, and made it out alive. The duffel bag full of cold, hard cash is sitting to Hog’s right, within arm’s reach, and he grins behind his mask at the thought of counting it all.

“We’ll be swimmin’ in it tonight, sure as sunshine!” Junkrat is crowing as he approaches. “Not a bad haul, matey, not a bad haul at all. An’ us in one piece! Well, in a manner of speakin’.” He laughs, a giggling, half-hysterical thing, which anyone else might mistake for the sound of a man on the verge of a breakdown. Hog knows better. That laugh means Junkrat’s relieved.

It had been a close call. If Junkrat hadn’t placed a small cluster of mines in a particularly strategic spot and blown a large group of guards to smithereens, there’s a good chance neither of them would be here right now. So Hog lets Junkrat gloat and crow to high heaven, because although he normally lets him do it anyway, tonight he’s earned it.

Junkrat flops down next to Hog, still recounting the victories of the day—“Did you see that bloke’s face when that trap went off? Nearly snapped his leg in two!”—and Hog’s arm automatically slings around his waist, pulling him closer so they’re hip to hip. It’s become instinct, now, to have him close, and the feeling of Junkrat’s prosthetic leg and arm next to Hog’s own is as familiar and comforting as the desert night.

Still chattering away—and there are times when Hog can’t stand the noise, but now it fills the otherwise empty air in a way that reminds him of a blanket—Junkrat climbs over Hog’s arm and inserts himself into his lap, sitting side-saddle, one side (the mostly mechanical one) pressed against Hog’s chest, the other facing the empty space of night air. Junkrat’s arms wind around Hog’s neck and Hog returns the gesture by folding his arms underneath him and hefting him up a little higher.

All this they do without exchanging so much as a word between them. It’s all muscle memory now, at least it is for Hog, and as Junkrat prattles on (Hog listens, he always listens, but he also knows that right now Junkrat isn’t talking for his benefit) he starts thinking that it might be like that for Junkrat too. Junkrat’s easier to read than most people—his alternating outbursts of rage and elation are a testament to that—but in some ways he’s as mysterious to Hog as Hog must be to most civvies they meet. Their relationship, for one, is something that started off simple; first boss and bodyguard, then partners in crime, then friends, and now . . . now Hog has no fucking clue. He lets Junkrat take the lead, just as he always has, lets him decide when to kiss and when to cuddle and when to fuck. Hog lets him choose because to him, it’s all good. Anytime, (almost) anywhere, as long as it’s okay with Junkrat, he’s up for it. Hog knows exactly how he feels about the half-mad, gorgeous little bastard. What he wishes he knew was exactly how Junkrat felt. Or, no, not that—he knows Junkrat is head over heels, and not just literally—but he wants to know _how much_. He wishes he could take out the (probably flammable) affection in Junkrat’s heart and melt it down and measure it out like Junkrat measures explosive materials for his bombs.

Meanwhile, somewhere outside Roadhog’s mind, Junkrat is tugging at his mask. “Take this flamin’ thing off, will you?” he’s saying, and Hog acquiesces, momentarily extracting an arm from where it’s holding Junkrat up to undo the clasps. Junkrat does the rest, tugging the thing off as though it personally offended him and tossing it in the vague direction of the duffel bag. His lips are on Roadhog’s in a second, nipping and biting at his mouth with zeal, excited little noises escaping from his throat every so often. Roadhog reciprocates, slower and with more patience, arms holding Junkrat close to his broad chest, smiling between kisses to match Junkrat’s toothy grin.

Junkrat’s not the only one to ever see Roadhog’s face without his mask, but he’s the only one who’s still alive, and he’s definitely the only one who’s ever kissed it. Hog’s never told Junkrat this (though he’s probably guessed it by now), but Roadhog would never take off his mask in front of anyone he didn’t trust with his life. And, mad as it is, Hog does trust Junkrat that much.

Maybe, Hog muses, he really is crazy. That’d be the only logical reason behind befriending someone like Junkrat in the first place. At least if he had still been doing it for the money, it would make sense, but this had stopped being a business partnership a long, long time ago.

Junkrat pulls away from Hog’s mouth and starts nuzzling up against his neck, trying to pull himself impossibly closer, and Hog’s thoughts crumble apart and drift away like ash in the wind. He concentrates instead on the body in his arms, the lightness of it, the fragility. Junkrat’s survived a lot of shit, but you wouldn’t think it’d be possible just looking at him. He looks scrawny, underfed (though Roadhog swears he eats enough for the both of them), and with the addition of the prosthetics he looks just as defenseless.

Roadhog still loves seeing the look on people’s faces when they realize just how badly they underestimated Junkrat.

Absentmindedly, he brushes a broad thumb along the scars that litter Junkrat’s torso, bare as always for all the world to see. Junkrat’s absolutely covered in scars, from countless run-ins with knives and bullets and his own explosives gone wrong. There are more scars on his right-hand side, old burns branching off from the stumps of his arm and leg, where a wayward blast had crippled him years ago. Junkrat’s never told Roadhog more than that, and he doesn’t ask.

Hog gives special attention to the twin scars across his chest, Junkrat’s pride and joy, respectively. He once told Roadhog that his favorite scar was the one on the right, so Hog claimed his favorite was the one on the left. Junkrat had giggled so hard at that he’d almost fallen off the sofa they were sitting on. He’d been almost deliriously happy for the rest of the night.

As Hog brushes at the scars, Junkrat squirms happily and nuzzles closer. “Can’t believe we pulled it off,” Junkrat says into Hog’s chest, still on the dregs of his adrenaline high.

Hog grunts in reply.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, we’ve seen worse an’ all that, but come on!” Junkrat pulls back to look Hog in the face and gestures wildly at the buildings behind him with his good hand. “That right there? That was some tip-top shite! Real quality stuff! You can’t deny that.”

Hog grunts in agreement.

Satisfied with his answer, Junkrat sinks back into Hog’s arms. “We oughta count it up now,” he says, eyes on the duffel bag. “Spend a little tonight, on booze maybe, give ourselves a little treat for once, yeah?”

Roadhog grunts.

Junkrat looks disappointed, but he nods. “Yeah, better not. Lay low for a while, eh? Save it for a rainy day. Don’t spend it all in one place!” He laughs inexplicably.

Roadhog grunts.

“Right. When we get to the safehouse.” Junkrat shifts his position in Hog’s lap a little to peer over his shoulder. “No coppers yet, but shouldn’t we be on our way, ’stead of sittin’ pretty looking at the stars?”

Junkrat has a point. This is longer than they usually stay near the scene of a crime, and it’s not like Hog can’t see the same desert from their safehouse window.

But he’s reluctant to leave. It’s nice, to have a few peaceful minutes when they’re not on the run to just sit back and watch something as slow as the moonrise. Having Junkrat in his arms is just making him want to stay more.

“Few more minutes,” Hog says. “We got time.”

At his words, Junkrat nods and relaxes back into his lap, suddenly at ease. Hog wonders about that, sometimes—how Junkrat will call the shots ninety-nine percent of the time, but whenever Hog makes a definite decision, Junkrat just goes along with it, without question. He wonders if that means Junkrat trusts him as much as it goes the other way around. He knows Junkrat’s not intimidated by him, and neither of them are the boss of anyone anymore. It must be trust, then. The strong kind of trust, that lets an anxious little ticking time bomb like Junkrat lounge in Hog’s arms and casually examine the paint on his nails like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Hog winds his arms a little tighter around that lovely time bomb. He’ll make good on that trust. He always has before this.

A gust of wind whistles through the abandoned buildings around them and ruffles Hog’s ponytail. The moon is high in the sky now, casting a silver glow across the sand and rocks and cacti in the distance, and Hog sighs deeply. It’s been nice, this bit of peace after a tough fight, but it’s time to leave now. Hog’s bike is waiting nearby to take them back to their safehouse, where they’ll spend the next few days (or a week, if they’re lucky) lounging about and counting up their winnings. Celebrating, maybe, like Junkrat suggested. Maybe some good booze would be in order after all.

And then, Hog knows, before long they’ll be off again, sniffing the air for another job, another heist, another gold mine to pillage and then detonate in a blaze of glory. And then after that job there’ll be another, and another, and another, until Junkrat blows his other leg off and maybe even some more after that. A never-ending parade of destruction, with Junkrat and Roadhog always at the end of it. Always together. Always at each other’s backs.

It’s a nice thought, Roadhog thinks, a smile on his lips. Feels a little like home.

Hog looks down to tell Junkrat that they have to leave, but the boy’s fast asleep in his lap. Curled up on his side like he always sleeps, mouth open and drooling slightly, hands clutching at Hog’s arm like it’s a pillow, Junkrat almost looks cute. Almost doesn’t look like he could kill an army of men with one glorious mine blast.

Hog knows better. His lovely lit fuse is anything but cute, anything but safe. It’s the best part about him, really.

Taking care not to jostle Junkrat, Hog slowly stands and shifts him a little so he can hold him with one arm. With the other, he picks up his mask and reattaches it to his face, and hefts the duffel bag onto one shoulder. He gives the Sonoran one last glance, then turns away, heading in the direction of his bike.

Junkrat makes a small noise and squirms in his arms a bit as Hog walks, steps heavy and uneven, but he doesn’t wake up. Hog ruffles his hair—singed, still, as it always seems to be, but Hog doesn’t mind.

Junkrat stirs as Hog straddles the bike and revs the engine, but he urges him back to sleep. He’s driven one-handed before, it’s fine. Junkrat keeps a death grip on Hog’s arm but drifts off again without so much as a mumble of protest.

It’s late, and this place is a ghost town on the best of nights, so Roadhog’s able to put his nickname to good use. As he speeds through the desert, headed east out of town, he makes sure to hold the little firecracker in his arms tight. Wouldn’t want to lose him, now.

Roadhog shakes his head to himself vehemently. No, wouldn’t want to do that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are love.


End file.
